


Shadows & Eclipses

by Validity_For_Dissonance (orphan_account)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Fluff, Gen, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24314791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Validity_For_Dissonance
Summary: Rufus and Lazard have not always been relentless rivals. Though he is loathe to admit it, there was a time when Rufus Shinra loved his brother.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra & Lazard Deusericus
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Shadows & Eclipses

_Don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t breathe…_

Standing behind a large hedge tree whose evergreen leaves have been trimmed to achieve an impeccable alignment, Rufus wills his small heart to quieten. He presses a hand to his mouth and peers from the edge ever so stealthily, surveying an expansive landscape of greenery, only to find no one. Conflicting emotions of relief and apprehension conflict within him. He waits for five, six, seven minutes… until his young mind can only perceive the elapsed time as simply being _too long_.

Did Lazard leave him here?

Frowning deeply, Rufus abandons his hiding place and looks to the left and to the right, now convinced that his brother is no longer there with him.

Thus he is completely unprepared for the set of hands that lands atop his shoulders, startling him enough to have him issue an audible gasp, as a taller figure leans over to proclaim in his left ear, “Found you!”

Rufus lets out a surprised laugh before turning to glare at his brother in an accusatory manner—an amusing expression on the cherubic face of a four year old. “That’s cheating! You’re supposed to be searching for me, not hiding too!”

Lazard shakes his head, a conspiring smile on his lips. “Not cheating, Rufus. It’s a tactic.”

“Tac-tic?” He tilts his head to the side.

“Mm,” Lazard nods. “It’s how you win anything. Without a plan, you’re much more likely to lose.”

The concept of win and loss is foreign amongst the siblings. Games have always been about enjoying each other’s company—having fun in the prison-like environment of the Shinra manor, away from the scornful gazes of the townspeople and their father’s high expectations. Competition of any kind feels like an infringement on their synthetic dreamscape; an unwelcome intrusion by reality.

“Does it matter who wins and who loses?” Rufus grumbles, at which Lazard laughs softly.

He bends to pick his younger brother up, settling him securely on his hip before heading towards the branch of a cherry blossom tree. “It’s not as straightforward as you might think. Sometimes winning feels like losing, and losing feels like winning.”

Rufus scrunches his face in confusion, adjusting his grip around Lazard’s neck to look at his face. “Huh?”

“Well, were you really mad when I found you?”

Rufus remembers the plethora of feelings that had overwrought him when he thought Lazard had abandoned him, and the instant relief that flooded him when he heard his voice. His expression softens, and a smile lights up his blue eyes.

“No,” he says with a head shake.

“There you go.” Smiling, Lazard presses a configuration of numbers on a camouflaged keypad, and their serene surroundings morph into cold steel and machinery that reflects state-of-the-art technology.

Together, they head to the dining room, hiding scuffed knees beneath pristine dress-pants, and schooling their features lest any giddiness should betray the fact that they spent their day playing in the simulation room instead of studying.

Their efforts are unnecessary, in any case. Even though their visits to their father’s company in Midgar are short and infrequent, he hardly spares them a glance.

***

President Shinra has never been particularly fond of his eldest son, and Lazard is painfully aware of this. Born out of wedlock and stripped of legitimacy, the twelve year old is a personified stigma to the esteemed president of the most powerful company in the world. It has become a regular habit for the man to bring up Lazard’s parentage at every possible opportunity, as though finding it delightful how words alone, so simple and seemingly innocuous, can make his son squirm.

One day, upon visiting his family in the Shinra manor in Nibelheim, he takes it to a new extreme.

Cleaning his mouth with a napkin, President Shinra addresses his wife with a deceptively light tone, “Have you heard of the financial crisis in Midgar’s slums, my dear?”

Lazard’s interest piques, and he sets down his cutlery slowly on the table.

For Mrs. Shinra’s part, she looks up warily from her food, her carefully coiffed golden hair framing her face. “Another financial crisis?”

Humming in affirmation, the president continues, “The death toll is higher than ever—most of it owes to suicide, mind you. But that is only to be expected. The poor have never been known to be particularly resilient in overcoming their dire situations, and giving up is simply the natural thing to do for such people.”

“That’s not true.” All three heads whip to look at Lazard, who is staring heatedly at his father. He has never spoken out of turn before, and it seems to amuse the old man more than he would verbally admit. Rufus fidgets in his seat, uncomfortable by the palpable tension that has gathered in the room.

“Ah, yes,” his father’s voice does betray some amusement, and so do his glinting eyes. “Your mother is one of those unfortunate slum-dwellers, isn't she?”

His wife tenses, but says nothing. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she looks down in distaste.

“How very sad,” he trails off, looking at some distant point before returning his gaze to his son. “I wonder if she herself has died. Remarkable as she was in some ways, I do remember her preferring the _easy_ way out of things.”

Before Lazard can make a retort, the president’s wife slams the table and exclaims, “ _Enough_ , Francis! I refuse to hear you speak of your whores on my breakfast table!”

“My mother is not a whore!” exclaims Lazard, pushing away from his seat as he stands.

“How would you know, boy?” his father quietly goads him. “After all, you are a living proof of her whoredom, are you not? Had she been anything else, you would not have existed.”

Incredulous tears, hot and acidic and enraged, gather in Lazard’s blue eyes. After staring at his father and stepmother for ten whole seconds, he spins on his heel and storms out of the dining room.

Rufus stands from his seat as well and turns to leave, but his mother’s voice stops him.

“Rufus!” she calls, vestiges of anger still evident in her frowning face. “Sit down and finish your breakfast!”

But he only glares at her. For the first time in his life, he feels something akin to disdain towards his mother, and she staggers at this realization. Without a word at either of his parents, Rufus follows after Lazard, steps quickening into a jog so that he can keep up. But his brother is nowhere to be found in the hallways, and so he walks to Lazard’s room and knocks softly.

When he receives no response, he presses his ear against the door and hears the distinct sounds of sniffling. His heart tugs in his chest, and he finds himself entering the room, albeit hesitantly.

“Lazard?” he calls softly.

“I want to be alone…” comes a pillow-muffled voice. The lights are dim and the curtains are drawn, leaving Rufus to squint as he makes out the general shape of Lazard’s form huddled in bed under many blankets.

“Even if it’s me?”

For the longest time, there is only silence, but then Lazard turns to face Rufus, eyes swollen and red and cold. It is so easy to redirect all the anger and frustration boiling in his heart towards his little brother. After all, he is that woman’s son, and Lazard blames her for a fair share of his miseries. Rightfully or not, he blames her, and he feels this blame slipping to the surface as it finds a ready target, making him callous and unforgiving; but just when he opens his mouth to issue a biting remark, he stops.

He stops because Rufus never stopped looking at him with those wide, expectant eyes—not even when Lazard glowered at him—because Rufus would never expect such emotions to come from his brother. He trusts him with all the innocence of a five year old, and Lazard instantly feels despicable for harboring ill feelings toward him, even if for a moment.

Anger is quick to fade from his gaze. His face softens until it only bears sadness and regret, and he lifts the blankets to allow Rufus to climb into bed with him. The boy heeds the invitation without a second’s thought, struggling slightly to lift himself over the edge before a pair of hands help him up.

Lazard gathers him into his arms and holds him close, whispering an apology into his hair. “I’m sorry, Rufus…”

“Why are you sorry?” Albeit being very confused, Rufus hugs him back, wondering how his brother ended up comforting him and not the opposite.

But Lazard simply shakes his head, perhaps to dismiss the question, or to dispel the remnants of previous thoughts.

Rufus pulls back to look resolutely into stricken blue eyes and says, “They’re wrong, Lazard. You’re supposed to exist, and your mom is not a bad person.”

His careful enunciation of those words, so grave for a child of such a young age who surely doesn’t understand the true meaning of his parents’ speech, makes Lazard chuckle fondly despite himself.

Planting a warm kiss on Rufus’ forehead, Lazard relaxes against the mattress and says, “I believe you.”

“Good,” Rufus nods once, failing to conceal a yawn. “Because I’m always right.”

With an amused hum, Lazard falls asleep thinking that his brother will grow up to be an unwaveringly influential figure.


End file.
